


A Lot of World

by BrosleCub12



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Doctor As Human, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, K9 is an actual dog, Male-Female Friendship, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 08:16:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: There's a human chain.In which there’s an English teacher (who comes with debates most novel) and a dog.





	A Lot of World

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** A Lot of World  
>  **Summary:** In which there’s an English teacher (who comes with debates most novel) and a dog.  
>  **Rating:** T  
>  **Characters:** AU/Human Twelfth Doctor, Clara Oswald, K9 (as an actual dog).  
>  **Trigger Warnings:** Talk of suicidal contemplation and depression, loss and bereavement. 
> 
> Title comes from Andy Williams’ 'Moon River,' more specifically the line: _There’s such a lot of world to see._
> 
> This originated from a multitude of ideas – inspired by some RL events along the way - and I really enjoyed working on this. However, it is un-beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Constructive feedback would be deeply appreciated.

* * *

 

There’s a human-chain and he’s right at the bloody bottom of it, suspended by one hand by his colleague in the bow-tie who is turn suspended by the professor in the sharp brown suit and so on and so forth. Holding on for dear life at the top is their beloved (no, really) superior, bent over and grunting in his exertions and there are long scarves and ties and jacket sleeves everywhere and he's pretty sure someone is wearing a pair of 3D glasses.

Of course they’d put him at the bottom, he thinks as he’s lowered down; it's vulnerable, more vulnerable than anything has any right being, to be suspended by arms and legs, braced only by a slanting wall at his back.

Regardless, though, there is a canal below with rising water and right at the bottom, a small Schnauzer is waiting to be rescued, lodged against the canal wall with a twitching nose and a cocked head, watching the rescue efforts, seemingly unaware of the water that’s slowly gathering speed, ready to whisk him away downstream. Don’t even _ask_ how he got there; they’re all too busy being reckless.

‘Get him, get the dog, Basil,’ everyone’s bellowing it down at him, more dramatically than any of them have the right to sound; he's the one getting the tails of his favourite dark coat damp and he glares up at them – _what d’you think I’m down here for, I’m fairly certain this was Sandshoes' idea._

The dog has no collar – well, _that_ explains a lot – and he quickly reaches out with his free hand, the other still gripping his colleague’s to prevent an impromptu swim, his shoes submerged as he grabs the dog by the scruff of the neck, grunting and panting, his breath pushing its way through his teeth. Water flitters against his face and nose; he’s getting considerably damp as the current splurges past him.

If they get out of this alive, he’s going to steal everyone’s coffee.

‘Hello,’ he tells the dog warily, managing to manoeuvre him so he’s tucked under one of his arms, mission accomplished. The dog seems remarkably unbothered by it all if rather wet, watching the proceeds with an almost detached, judging eye as he spreads a damp patch over his suit. Chinny, the idiot above him in the bow-tie clinging onto one of his hands almost lets him go so he can give him a thumbs-up or a high-five or _something_ before recognising the flaw in the plan. The dog rumbles as he glares upwards; his colleague feebly mouths ‘Sorry.’

'Right,' he snarls up the makeshift ladder of coats and idiots, ‘Up we go – today would be good!’ His voice is hoarse from panting (and adrenaline) and there's a lot of muttering and shuffling and a sudden mass epiphany of _how the hell are we going to throw this into reverse._

Miraculously, they manage it – a young woman who’s been watching with some of the other passers-by, dark-haired and wearing red and black, comes forward to help pull the chain upright. She's about the size of a stick-insect, so it doesn't help much, but it's the thought that counts.

He’s tugged back over the railing, the last one to come up, while the rest of them are applauded by the small crowd that’s gathered and he’s left holding the dog and getting grey, wet hairs all over his jacket as Chin Boy takes a bow on their behalf and Sandshoes manages to look moderately pleased with the whole situation.

Then, of course, there’s the case of returning the dog.

Which is more difficult than it should be, because no-one in the immediate vicinity actually owns him.

*

He’s quite a young Schnauzer – a he, definitely a he, they take him to the vet, a jolly old man who commends them for their bravery and gives them each a jelly baby - and it’s one of those awkward situations where they’re all left looking at each other and wondering what to do. None of them have the heart to take the dog to the local shelter; Sandshoes gets filled with self-righteous rage at the very mention of it and there was that incident once time where they let Chin Boy go there alone and he came back with a few new friends and half a dozen sponsorship forms.

‘He might not even get adopted,’ he offers up helpfully – he’s still holding the dog – and that gets him a glare or two, an outraged mutter of _‘Basil!’_ from the group. He glances down at the wet Schnauzer, who looks up at him, belligerent and unbothered.

He looks right back at it – _I’m Scottish, you little sod, don’t try and outblink_ me – and the dog lays his head against his arm. They’re still both very wet. He shifts him in his eyes, prays to the ceiling for patience.

_‘Fine,’_ he snaps finally and that’s how a group of reckless men end up sharing a canine, who seems happy to put up with them until someone better comes along.

No-one does, but they all feed him and give him a bed for the night. They even give him a name – Kay, sweet and simple – after a lot of in-fighting, arguments for and against naming him after a Douglas Adams’ character and threats to burn each other’s record collections. But they all scratch his ears and remember to never forget he likes chicken and never leave him outside on cold nights and always remember to pass him onto the next guy who happens to be at home this weekend, so that's fine by Kay.

*

One thing that Kay is useful for is ensuring that every one of the thrill-seeking idiots who owns him manages to get some exercise. Obviously this isn’t hard for people like Chinny and Sandshoes, whose metabolism and frankly irritating energy levels are just unbelievable, but when you’re a certain age – although just as mean and lean as the others, thanks – apparently it’s not acceptable to hide out in your office at all hours. _Apparently,_ you need fresh air, according to the faithful, red-haired secretary in the Physics department with eyes of steel who makes great coffee, both to drink and to throw at people who look at either him or Sandshoes the wrong way. It’s what the bolder of his students suggest and after throwing down half a dozen threats on them for daring to take a concerned interest in his physical and emotional wellbeing, whenever he’s put in charge of Kay – which seems to be more often these days, as though his friends fear he’s _lonely,_ somehow – he takes the Schnauzer for a walk in the park.

Wearing his shades, he ambles along behind Kay; throws a stick for him when coerced. Kay has that annoying habit of bringing the stick back once and then sitting at his feet and waiting for something _else_ to be thrown, as though he has pockets which are infinitely bigger on the inside. It makes him sort of want to turn Kay into shoes, but it also kind of earns his grudging admiration for not putting up with idiocy, so.

They’re wandering along today by the bank of the river; there’s a young woman sitting on the grass, dark-haired and relaxed, reading a book in her lap. Kay suddenly breaks his stride and beetles off towards her, happy as Larry (who the hell is Larry, anyway?)

Alarm. Kay has never done this before; lets people pet him if they pass, certainly, is happy to lick eager children’s hands, but never _this._ Pushing down his sunglasses, he watches the dog mosey up to the young lady’s side; she turns towards him, her mouth moving in an obviously surprised ‘oh’ before reaching out to pet him, a smile breaking out on her face like a pocket-watch being opened.

‘Hello,’ she’s saying, scruffling Kay’s neck with noted enthusiasm by the time he’s jogged up behind them; please don’t let Kay turn out to have biting tendencies, it’ll just be embarrassing for everyone. Kay, however, enjoys being petted and in a show of enthusiasm that he’s definitely _never_ shown his current foster-owner, is rubbing his cheek against the lady’s thigh. She can’t even be thirty. Filthy little whatsit.

The lady in question turns and smiles up at him, putting a hand over her eyes – big eyes, even under the shade of her palm, as wide as windows – to take him in. ‘Hi.’

‘Hello.’ It occurs to him it might be a little uncomfortable, him looming over her like this and so takes his sunglasses off to appear a little more respectable or at the very least, like he’s not about to kill her; attempts the part of responsible dog-owner by crouching down next to his runaway mutt. ‘Sorry, he’s never done that before – stop looking so pleased with yourself,’ he scolds the dog, who is sat on his rump, wagging his tail self-righteously.

The lady laughs; the sound is unnerving. Are people supposed to laugh so much these days? ‘No, it’s fine.’ She pats the dog’s neck. ‘I mean, yeah, I prefer cats, but you know… dogs are nice.’ She beams up at him, keeping a hand on Kay’s back.

‘Cats are evil,’ he warns her, jabbing his finger. ‘They stay awake all night casting weird spells and forming strange choirs.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ She asks the question in a manner that could be patronising, or humouring, or neither. Traces of a Blackpool accent, he notices. He shrugs his shoulders wide in an ‘obviously’ motion.

‘Why else would they spend all night howling? And so loudly?’

She howls herself at that, and he blinks.

‘You’re not going to pass out, are you? Only, I’m not First-Aid trained.’ Not officially anyway. He’s just been unlucky. Or other people have been. He’s not sure.

‘No.’ The young woman smiles, her voice petering off into a croak that hitches her tone. She gestures to the dog in the silence that follows; ostensibly for something to talk about. He’s not the best at making conversation. ‘What’s his name?’

The Walking Schnauzer of Pure Adulterated Evil sounds like a good reply – making him stop in the park to talk to people, it’s just undignified – when she raises her eyebrows at that, unimpressed rather than confused as people usually are when he tells them that, he adds, slightly chagrined, ‘Kay.’

‘Oh – like a canine. _Kay-nine._ Clever,’ she commends and he blinks at this. ‘Hi, Kay.’ She scratches his ears, her manicured nails and small hands a clue – she’s a teacher, he realises, pen-smudges and the constant need to set a good example. It looks kind.

‘Yeah…’ He carefully mentions that no-one brought this up when they named the dog in the first place; they just _really_ liked the name. Clearing his throat and needing something else to talk about, he glances at the novel on her lap.

‘How’s the book?’ He tilts his head to read the title. ‘Austen? Highly intelligent woman.’

‘I love her,’ the woman beams then, as though he’s somehow complimented her and maybe he has. ‘I must have read _Pride and Prejudice_ about fifty times; I would have loved to have met her.’

_I feel the same way about Shirley Bassey,_ he wants to say but somehow feels better keeping that particular secret to himself. He got teased enough when her Greatest Hits were found in his record collection that time it was his turn to host book-club.

‘English teacher,’ he says instead, pointing at her; the pen-marks, of course, ever present smudges of education but also the sensible shoes – a lot of time walking around the classroom, encouraging the children to read aloud, they must really love that – and of course, the nametag that’s visible around her neck which states her title and department. Her first name is something beginning with C; there’s just a surname: _Oswald._ She’s surprised, her eyes growing even larger, but glances down at her nametag as well and something seems to relax in her face.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not some crazy stalker, just clever. Coal Hill?’ he adds, to chivvy this conversation along and past the awkward moment. ‘Yeah, I go back a bit with the board of governers.’ A long way back, but she doesn’t need to know that and anyway, he’s getting a raised eyebrow, as though she’s asking if she’s supposed to be impressed. She’s not, he was just making conversation. Bugger that.

He puts a pointed hand on Kay’s collar. ‘We’ll leave you to your book. And your lunch.’ He gestures to the sandwiches he can see, the wrapper visible in her open bag. ‘Be careful with that, there are thieves about.’

‘What? Cheese and pickle thieves?’ she throws cheekily after him as he moves away, clicking his fingers at Kay – and then clicking them again when the blasted dog doesn’t follow.

‘Stranger things have happened,’ he shrugs, devil-may-care and then, promptly losing patience, ‘Kay, here!’

Kay turns his head to lick English Teacher Oswald’s hand and she giggles and gives him a gentle shove, with one last pat to the head. ‘Bye, Kay.’  

She waves after them as they rejoin the path and stroll away and he finds himself marking his walk – not really wanting to make it seem like he’s running away. _Act casual, you fool._

‘See?’ he challenges Kay when he’s pretty sure they’re right out of earshot. ‘Fairly sure I know how to talk to people, thanks.’

Kay raises his eyes to him, as though dearly wanting to comment that _he’s_ fairly sure that’s isn’t quite the case, thanks – the mutt _always_ manages to do a thing with his brow that always unsettles him, like he’s raising an eyebrow in the same way that Miss Oswald just did.

Again, though: grudging respect. He always did like animals who could think for themselves.

*

‘I’m Clara,’ she tells him, just as friendly as before, the next time they see each other, a week later. He shakes the hand that’s offered – _that’s_ what the C stands for, then – and crouches down next to her on the riverbank on the patch of grass that’s offered to him, Clara patting it with a welcoming hand. Same old, same old, except for one small difference.

‘Where’s Kay?’ she asks, her voice sounding more cheerful with curiousity rather than simple disappointment – although he makes a note to move on quickly if the dog’s absence is felt too much. Kay can often be a rather useful barrier when it comes to other people – he’s great to have in the office at Uni, for example; he puts the students at ease when they come in for tutorials.

‘Friend’s got him,’ he replies, staring out at the water with her. ‘Shared custody. Long story.’

‘Hm.’ She observes him, not looking… all that remotely phased, really. Probably just wondering what he’s doing out in the park without a dog. Be fair, Clara Oswald the English Teacher, he likes to take a book into the park to read as well. Sometimes. Not often. Maybe.

Also, there’s the slight and more present problem of getting into the habit of taking Kay out for daily walks, just to pacify him for the rest of the afternoon so he can actually get some work done – and then having to deal with the lingering restlessness of staying inside, the excuse gone once he’s handed Kay over to somebody else.

‘So, erm…’ Clara crosses her legs, dark tights and a short red skirt with red boots. Seriously, what is it with people and boots? He averts his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘I never got your name.’

‘Doctor,’ he tells her; belatedly offers his hand to her this time. ‘Or Basil, if you prefer.’ He attempts to smile politely as they shake on it _again,_ watches her making her own deductions; that he’s a professor at the University and that he rather dislikes most people. Weird clothes, long coats, frankly insane hair; you can’t miss him. Right on all counts.

‘Came here for peace and quiet away from the orphans,’ he quips; finds himself crossing his own legs, mirroring hers. ‘Speaking of which, don’t _you_ have orphans to teach? School’s only twelve minutes away on foot and they probably like to go around vandalising things. I estimate you’ve got about twenty-three minutes before you have to head back for afternoon classes?’ He makes a show of checking his watch and then remembers he doesn’t wear one. _Idiot._

‘And you?’ she asks, letting that slide, rather mercifully in his opinion. ‘When do _you_ go back? To the Uni, that is,’ she corrects herself with a chuckle. ‘Not Mars or any place like that.’

‘You can’t live there, it’s not habitable,’ he tells her seriously and then realises she was joking. Bloody hell, she’s as bad as Donna; _she_ thinks he’s a Martian, too. Not far off, really and it might be nice. Perhaps there’s less foolish things in outer space than there are on Earth and he throws his hand up in the direction of the path leading back to the Physics building.

‘It’ll do that lot good to think I’ve forgotten to mark their essays for a moment or two. They need an adrenaline rush, it’s better than coffee.’ He shrugs, innocently; she smiles a little, something careful and polite. It occurs to him that that may well have been a hint on her part and she would probably really like some privacy. He hasn’t seen her in the park all week; perhaps this is the only time she gets to come here. Children have a terrible habit of being noisy and one must escape them at every opportunity. And the less said about the twerking, the better.

‘Speaking of coffee.’ Clara is glancing past him, just as he’s drawing breath to excuse himself and he closes his mouth, follows her gaze instead. There’s a rather fancy food van some yards away, near the play-area, a recent park acquisition. Coffee and chips, among other things, are on the menu. Turning back to her, he finds himself faced with a five-pound note.

‘Do you mind?’ she crinkles up her nose in a rather – well, peculiar manner, as though scared she’s offended him simply by asking. ‘Get one for yourself, maybe? I don’t know if you’ve got any money in those pockets.’ She eyes his outfit, his red velvet coat in particular – which he decided to wear today because he enjoys watching the students seethe with envy at something that cost half their yearly loan and anyway it makes him feel Extremely Smart – and he blinks, accepting the money. Might as well do one good turn this year – rescuing Kay and risking his neck was probably the last one he did – and he could probably do with some caffeine as well, if he’s honest. He’s not sure he can remember the last time he slept properly.

‘How do you know I’m not lying about the university thing and that I’m not actually some homeless tramp who’ll run off with this?’ he thinks to ask her at the last second, crunching the fiver between his fingers. She blinks, seems to consider this.

‘Do all homeless tramps have nametags on quite clearly proclaiming themselves as Doctor Basil Whatever of Physics?’

He glances down. It’s hanging around his neck.

‘So you could see it all this time?’ he asks, holding it up between his fingers, suitably defeated and she laughs, the sound as trickling as the river.

‘Yeah, but it was nicer watching you being sociable. I take sugar,’ she adds, before opening her book and settling down to read, _here endeth the conversation._ He’s left with no option but to turn on his heel and head towards the van, scaring some of his Uni students away from the window when they spot him. Sociable _– ha._

He comes back with one pound and two cups and Clara takes one, tells him to keep the coin – ‘It’s fine,’ ‘I’M NOT A HOMELESS TRAMP!’ ‘No, I know, but you can buy Kay a chocolate bone when you next see him.’ ‘I am not buying that little b- _fine.’_ Clara for some reason thinks he needs feeding up, because then she shares her sandwiches with him; she has cheese and pickle, lots of it and it would be rude to refuse.

‘My Gran always gives me extras,’ she confesses, looking sheepish for some reason; he takes one, just one and leaves the other three squares to her, but accepts a single salt and vinegar stick when she holds the bag out to him.

‘How’s Austen today?’ he finally thinks to ask – she’s sharing her food with him, might as well be civil – and her face lights up.

_‘Sense and Sensibility,’_ she trills happily and he huffs.

‘Ah, Colonel Brandon. Gotta love him and his poor, faithful heart.’

‘I _know!’_ Clara replies with such enthusiasm that he nearly falls off his grassy perch and down into the water. He manages _not_ to do that; instead, after settling his heart-rate, he shares with her his own personal analogies of the character, based on his own perception of the novel – namely, that if Colonel Brandon were a chocolate bar he would be one of those good-quality milk chocolate ones outside the mainstream branding, the ones that come in blue wrappers and will never disappoint you; whereas Willoughby is like one of those chocolate bars with crackly bits that will basically explode. Let it never be said that he doesn’t appreciate fine literature.

She gapes at him and then promptly informs him she’ll be stealing that for her class this afternoon, thanks and they spend the next fifteen minutes hotly debating what kind of chocolate Edward Ferrars is (‘It’s _got_ to be Galaxy!’ ‘Nah, too smooth by far. I say he’s more Cadbury; more real, more down to earth.’ ‘Okay, no, _Maltesers,_ then!’) as they sit side-by-side next to the river.  

(In the back of his head, the thought lingers that maybe he doesn’t _always_ need Kay as his main excuse to talk to other people).

*

He walks with her – not walks her, walks _with_ her – to the park entrance and then she goes one way, he another, ‘I’ll take the high road, you take the other one, that one towards the fidget spinners,’ and she whacks him lightly with Sense and Sensibility when he says that, pointing up the path.

‘I’m still think Alan Rickman was the best Colonel,’ she throws over her shoulder as she strolls away and it’s only halfway back to his Physics office that he realises students are staring at him because of the lingering grin on the corner of his mouth.

(He’d love to see Kay’s face right now).

*

‘Coffee?’

‘Chips, I think. You’re buying.’

‘Fetching for you now, am I?’ A raised eyebrow down at her as he whips his sunglasses off.

‘Well, no, but in that red velvet number you’ve obviously left at home today, you _could_ be…’ It’s harmless, a friendly twinkle as she leans back on her arms but then her smile fades as she clocks the look on his face. ‘…Joking.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I was – talking about your – your coat, just – ‘

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘Sorry.’

‘No, no, you’re fine.’

‘…Now you’ve made me want red velvet cake.’

He laughs, a short chuckle. She thinks she’s made him feel embarrassed and that he’s going to leave. He’s done far worse to other people and it _is_ a nice coat; why else would he wear it. ‘Chips, yeah? Settle for ketchup, for the time-being?’

‘Yep.’

They spend fifteen minutes like this, eating their bundles, generously soaked with salt and vinegar and going over the representation of Fanny Price in Mansfield Park – ‘I hate to say it, but I prefer the film versions,’ – before a little old lady causes a distraction further up the river-bank, screaming that her dog is stuck in the mud. It rained the night before and he and Clara are sharing a strategic blanket that she brought from home.

He sighs, tosses off the coat he’s wearing – his dark, long one with the hood – and gives it to Clara, who takes it with a considerably knowing smile, before rolling up his sleeves and heading down the bank.

Afterwards, he’s got mud all over his trousers, twigs in his hair, a grateful old lady’s lipstick on his cheek and a muddy, happy Golden Labrador gambling around his feet, thinking they were playing. He ruffles his hair resentfully, wonders if he can convince students this has anything to do with crop rotation.

‘Crop rotation, which led to aliens arriving on earth, which led to them invading your body, which forced you into an awkward situation,’ Clara throws out helpfully, wandering at his elbow, clutching the coat and her blanket, eyes gleaming, all laughed out. ‘You’ve got a bit of a habit of rescuing dogs in peril,’ she remarks then and he smirks, thinking of Kay. He tells her how he skyped Chinny the night before to discuss a lecture swap next week and how Chinny thought it would be a great idea to put Kay on the webcam – the dog even suffered the indignity of having his paw ‘waved.’ Clara laughs some more and the sound of her follows him down the pavement back to the Uni, although not in a bad way.

(Just - when did he become _funny?)_

It’s only seven and a half hours later, after he’s finally made it home to find a very sheepish Chinny on his doorstep clutching Kay – ‘yeah, sorry – er, something’s come up,’ ( _something_ being his married friends who are going away camping for the weekend and have convinced themselves that they want a koala in a bow-tie as a tagalong) and he’s taken Kay inside, is feeding him and absent-mindedly rubbing his neck that he realises _exactly_ what it was that Clara said.

_Got a bit of a habit of rescuing dogs in peril._

It hadn’t been questioning. And he certainly didn’t mention the human-chain; it was too embarrassing.

But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t _know._

_Small hand in his free one. Eyes, curtained by bluishness but big, very big and hair very long, her hand reaching out to pluck him back and over the side. He had taken it on reflex – it was a kind thought - but had been too busy trying not to drop the dog to linger on her for long._

Younger – two years ago, after all – but looking a lot, _lot_ older.

*

‘You were there that day.’ He stops next to her and stares right ahead. It’s Saturday; he’s not quite sure what he was expecting, but he needed fresh air and Kay’s been feeling restless.

She doesn’t look at him straight away; he’s had a habit of just marching up and crouching down beside her as a way of saying hello. She’s attempting to look nonchalant, curled up by the bank, staring down at the river, as she always is. Kay sits down by her side; without looking up, she pets his head and he raises his nose to it, licks her hand as though reassuringly.

_Don’t be unkind about this. Whatever you do, do not be unkind._

‘You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.’ He tries not to sound accusing – feels he’s failed miserably and makes a concentrated effort to lower his tone. ‘You didn’t know some idiot passing would spot an idiot dog down the side that you either failed to spot or simply spotted too late and that he would call several of his equally idiotic friends to come and help save him, or for those efforts to draw a crowd.’

Kay yaps at him.  

‘No offence,’ he adds, belatedly to him. ‘You _were_ stupid, though, getting yourself stuck like that,’ he adds warningly and a twitch of a smile passes over Clara’s face.

‘How long did it take you?’ she asks. Her voice should be quavering; the sudden shine in her eyes that’s not from laughter speaks for itself.

He drops down like a stone next to her, mimics her position by crossing his own legs together, tucking his arms around.

‘You’ve cut your hair since then,’ he says, apologetic; wants it to make her laugh, but she doesn’t laugh; looks the other way. Her hair – long like weeds, two years ago – now ends softly at her jawline, untied, unpinned; it makes her look that little bit older, but he remembers looking briefly into those eyes, that face, that day on the side of the canal as he was tugged up, Kay in his arms. Clara had been thin, then, very thin – not strong enough to lift him up, but he had taken her hand because she had offered it and it had been enough, somehow.

(He was right: she hadn't been expecting that to happen by the side of the canal on that particular day. It was raining; hardly anyone was around, or so she thought.

It had been a fortnight since the death of Danny Pink).

‘I didn’t know it was you,’ she explains, too calmly. ‘Not at first. I thought you might recognise me, but…’ She shrugs. ‘It was a relief, actually, that you didn’t. Because _I_ don’t want to. Remember, that is. I don’t want to recognise that person I was at all. I don’t even want to think about it.

‘Sorry.’ He says it so carefully, a word he’s simply not used to saying; it’s not in his vocabulary. Pushes it out experimentally, between his teeth – there’s no escaping the fact that he’s ripped the bandage right off, here. There’s a question beneath, but he’s aware they’ve both got too much pride; he knows that much about Clara, the way she argues a point to the bitter end about Bronte, the staunch way she defends certain aspects of _Game of Thrones._

‘I’m not sure I,’ she swallows, licks her lips nervously; the words won’t come. ‘I don’t know what I was trying to do, just – there was no-one there and I was just walking and I just _stopped_. I can’t think how long I was standing there, staring at the water and I just thought...’ She gestures to Kay who shuts his eyes in a slow, steady blink, his whole face soft as an encouragement.

‘I didn’t see him go over the side,’ she scratches his ears and he hums. ‘Sorry,’ she tells the dog, as though she’s somehow personally responsible for his safety and well-being. ‘I honestly didn’t notice. I didn’t notice anything, just the water and how fast it was and how it could probably carry anything away. And then _you_ were all there,’ she gazes back up, ‘and you were helping him and there were people – he was probably barking for help before and I never heard him, because I don’t think I could hear _anything,_ at all. The least I could do was help you back up.’

(It’s the first time she’s spoken about it; the first time anyone has asked. No-one knew and no-one has ever known. Her Gran suspected, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t).

‘I’m sorry,’ she manages.

‘Please don’t,’ he tells her and he’s not referring to the overflow of tears, dousing her cheeks with revelation.

She falls sideways, towards him; he catches her and lets his coat grow damp all over again.

*

‘When – when my Mum died,’ she tells him, later, curled up on his sofa in a blanket while he brings her a tea. ‘That was – well. That was the worst thing. I mean – it was a long time ago now and yeah, you get used to things, you know, including your dad remarrying someone who practically lives in the scented candles’ factory and it doesn’t really matter after a while that he doesn’t seem to notice all those little barbs she hands out. You just… get used to things.’

He nods, thinks he might be trying to look kind. He takes his seat opposite her, watches her unburden herself.

‘But then you kind of… what happens, when something _else_ happens?’ she shrugs at him and he bites his lip, not wanting to answer that. ‘When some – some stupid idiot is driving a car around a corner too, too fast without looking where he’s bloody well _going_ and then you’re just left with this – this empty flat you were both about to move into together and he should be there, he absolutely should. And you know what’s coming, you know what you’ve got to feel, what you’re going to have to do to get through this and you’re just expected to _deal_ with it and you’re thinking: _what, again?_ Why again? How is that fair?’

He stands again, hovers and then awkwardly perches on the other end of the sofa as Clara wipes her tears on the blanket. Kay glances up at him, as though willing him to _do something, you idiot_ and he feels as though he’s in a sodding episode of _Frasier._ He watches Kay’s tongue dart out delicately, lick Clara’s hand, his own constant reassurance and it makes her huff, a bunged-up laugh through the tea and tears and she pulls her hands away from her face to scratch Kay’s ears. When she looks back, something has shifted in her face; the cracks are coming back together.

‘It was five minutes,’ she tells him, like an assurance. ‘It was just five minutes and I – never again. I swear, never again – I haven’t. I worried my Gran, though. I worried her so much.’ She bites her lip, her whole face breaking and it’s breaking something inside him. ‘She’s in her eighties and she’s got me living with her just so she can keep an eye on me and make sure I eat my lunch and that I’m sleeping and that I don’t do anything stupid. I should be the one keeping an eye on her; it should be the other way around.’

‘I thought good grandparents looked out for their children just because they _wanted_ to,’ he tells her, bluntly. It seems to move Clara, to still her somehow – maybe even comfort? – and she wipes her tears with the back of her hand. He offers her first the Kleenex box he has on the table and then a bourbon. Tea and biscuits. The cure to any ill, as he learned after River broke up with him.

‘I’ve got a lot of students in my care,’ he tells her carefully; she’s eyeing him strangely, as though not quite able to believe that he’s doing this for her, or even that he did what he did for her by the side of the river bank. His coat is drying off in the airing-cupboard. ‘It’s hard when… people don’t give themselves a chance to breathe and… they think they can’t do something. They can, they just…panic.’

‘I’m not one of your students,’ she tells him, almost as aggressively, biting into the bourbon and wiping her nose.  

He throws a hand around, careless and to hide the fact that it’s shaking, or that he’s wondering on the fact that he and his friends managed to not simply save the life of a random dog alone. ‘Didn’t say you were.’

(And the thought of what might have turned out to be if Kay hadn’t got himself stuck down that embankment and caused a timely distraction… There may have been something else in the water; hair matted in the surf, black clothes blacker by the river).

‘Why did you spend all those lunchtimes on the side of the river?’ he wants to know instead, mainly to push his thoughts away. _It didn’t happen._ Clara chuckles at that, pushing her hair back as Kay seems to take it as read that he can lie down on her lap, settles over her knees.  

‘It’s… _nice,_ there?’ she tries; he scoffs and she laughs, tearfully. ‘No, seriously; that river’s connected to the canal, yeah? And Danny would have probably just come back to – well, not _slap_ me, he was too much of a gentleman for that – but he wouldn’t have liked it. I had a choice after all and I – I still do. I just… it was like an apology. Me staring into the water and knowing I’m still here.’ She shrugs. ‘How could I do that to him?’

‘How could you indeed,’ he murmurs and then just because: ‘Danny sounds like a good man.’

Clara snorts. ‘You’d have hated him, I think. He used to be a soldier but he was – he was so kind. I loved him. I really did, I loved him.’

He’s struck, just a little, by all of that, but mostly by the first part and the fact that she’s even thought about that at all. By everything that Clara’s told him today - although more exhausting for her than for him and with that thought, he busies himself with getting his coat.

‘We didn’t have lunch,’ he reminds her. She raises an eyebrow, looking vaguely amused even under the gritty tearmarks on her face.

‘We don’t have lunch on Saturdays.’

‘Semantics,’ he brushes it aside, buttons up his coat. ‘So, ah – if your Gran’s got no objections to me feeding you for a change, why don’t we swap it for dinner?’ He finds himself rubbing his neck _(stop it)_ scrunching up a fist in his right hand _(stop it again)_ and Clara nods vigorously, her hands cupping Kay’s head.

‘You’re buying. Or fetching. Whatever.’

He doesn’t have any problems with that. Kay is looking far too self-satisfied for his own good, though.

‘Can I trade him in for a pizza?’ he quips, gesturing to Kay and it makes Clara laugh at last; a relief of the familiar after an afternoon of tea and tears.

‘Right – you,’ he instructs to Kay, who seems very intent on keeping Clara right where she is – might be hard for her to leave at all, if he doesn’t let up, ‘make yourself useful and look after her. Make yourself at home,’ he adds to Clara – hesitates before rubbing Kay’s head, scratching his ears briefly.

‘Good dog,’ he murmurs and Kay licks his hand, unexpected, like a silent _affirmative, Basil._

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I really, really love the idea of the Doctor’s name being Basil and although I know (or suspect) that it was mostly a joke they threw in during the Zygon two-hander, I had to give him the name in this – I felt my previous usage of John Smith had become rather predictable and I wanted something fresh. You may have noticed though, that I used it sparingly, as I didn’t want to tie him down too much; it just made sense to me although I’m sorry if it caused problems to the reading process. It just feels really unusual to give the Doctor a name, in any circumstance. Feedback on this particular aspect would be appreciated. 
> 
> 2) K9 just ‘became’ a Schnauzer in my head; I don’t know why, maybe someone suggested it, or maybe it’s because to me personally, he looks like one. Incidentally, [this](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/a6/Miniature_schnauzer_blackandsilver.jpg) is what a Schnauzer looks like. 
> 
> 3) The discussion about Austen men = chocolate bars was inspired by a comment I made to my Romanticism professor years ago, at Uni. To this day, I still think Colonel Brandon is like good quality milk chocolate. ^_^


End file.
